Chapter 44 WHO AM I

Chapter 44 WHO AM I
RYAN

If I thought I was a nobody without track, I was wrong. Let me rephrase that: I'll be a nobody if I turn down the GS internship and spend the summer rotting on the couch. This version of Ryan McKenna is pathetic. Despicable, even.
All my life I've always been in motion—chasing the next milestone, the next finish line. My existence has been one long checklist, every box ticked with surgical precision. And now? The boxes have stopped. The race has stalled. And I don't know who I am when I'm not sprinting toward something.
To add to this glorious mix I can feel it in the way Sean's been looking at me lately—like he's gearing up to say something big. Maybe is the talk. Finals are creeping closer, and summer isn't some distant concept anymore. He'll graduate, head into the Bruins rookie program, step fully into that world he's been working toward his entire life.
And me? Jobless. Careerless. Boyfriend-less.
That'll be me in a couple of months. And honestly, it's not like I'm counting down the days. If anything, I wish time would slow the hell down.
If I'm being honest with myself, the future terrifies me more than I'm willing to admit out loud.
For years, it's always been obvious. Track. Training. Nationals. Maybe the Olympics, if the stars aligned. Then Goldman, or any other investment bank that took me in. Big job, bigger paycheck. One of those shiny LinkedIn paths people repost with emojis and thinly veiled envy.
It wasn't a question of if, only when.
Now... it's like I'm standing at a starting line, waiting for a gun that's never going to go off. No clear direction. And Sean... God, Sean.
I love him. I do. But loving someone who's about to sprint into their future while you're still stuck trying to remember who you are? That's a special kind of fear. He's on the edge of everything he's worked for—his name on a Bruins roster, a new rhythm, a life that's finally catching up to his potential.
And me? I'm here, second-guessing whether I even want the internship that was supposed to prove my worth.
For someone who's supposed to have her act together, I feel completely untethered.
I'm sitting cross-legged on the couch, laptop open but untouched, when Tyler drops down into the armchair across from me. Hoodie. Sweatpants. His hair sticking up in that permanently half-done way. He's got that look—the one that says he's read me like a book before I've even turned the page.
"Okay," he says, sipping from a chipped mug like this is just another morning. "What's going on in that terrifying brain of yours?"
I glare at him. "Why do you always assume something's wrong?"
He raises a brow. "Because your laptop's open, you haven't typed a thing in twenty minutes, and you're chewing on your sleeve like it owes you money."
I glance down. Damn it. He's right.
I sigh. "Everything feels... like it's slipping. I don't have a grip on my life anymore, I'm not sure I want the internship, Sean's about to graduate and join the Bruins roster. Meanwhile, I'll just... be here. Doing nothing. Being no one."
Ty doesn't react right away. He just watches me, calm in that unnervingly patient psych-major way.
"You know," he says slowly, "it's okay to not have the next ten steps mapped out."
I snort. "Says the guy who's had his entire grad school plan color-coded since sophomore year."
He smirks. "Touché. But seriously, Ry. You've spent your entire life sprinting. You don't know how to stand still. And now that life's forcing you to pause, you're treating it like failure instead of what it actually is—a reset."
I look away, throat tight. "A reset sounds nice. In theory. But it doesn't make the waiting part less miserable."
Ty leans forward, elbows on his knees. "It's not waiting. It's breathing. It's figuring out what you want, without your dad's voice in your head or some timeline looming over you. You're allowed to not know. You're allowed to change your mind."
Something about the way he says it—calm, sure, like it's the simplest truth—hits deeper than I expect.
I whisper, "What if I end up wanting something completely different than what I've been working toward?"
He shrugs, like it's obvious. "Then you go for it. You don't owe your past self a life you've outgrown."
My chest aches, but in a way that feels... good. Like something's unclenching.
Leave it to Tyler Alvarez—the team's most chaotic goalie and resident psych major—to ground me when I'm spinning out.
I sink back against the couch cushions, letting his words settle in. The truth of them stings a little, but in that way that good advice always does. Tyler leans back in his chair, spinning his mug between his hands like he's not about to casually drop something that'll stick with me for days.
"Can I make a suggestion?" he asks carefully.
I narrow my eyes. "You mean another one?"
He grins. "Yeah. But this one's actually good, so hear me out."
I gesture for him to go on.
"You've been stuck in this loop," he says. "Everything you talk about is tied to what you've lost or what you're unsure about. But what if you started looking at what's around you, not just what's behind you? Boston's basically overflowing with programs and charities for injured athletes. Spaulding Adaptive Sports, Achilles Boston, the works. You'd be surprised at how many people are figuring out their new normal too."
I blink at him. "You think I should... volunteer?"
"Or visit. Or talk. Or get involved in some way that doesn't require you to have it all figured out on day one," he says. "You were an athlete. You still are one, whether you're competing or not. These programs are full of people who've been where you are—probably worse, if we're being honest. You could find something there that reminds you why you loved the sport in the first place."
His words land heavier than he probably realizes. Because the truth is... I've been avoiding other injured athletes. Any other athletes apart from the ones I live with if I'm being truthful. Avoiding looking at what comes after. It's easier to sit in limbo than face it head-on.
But maybe that's exactly why I should.
Tyler notices the way my expression shifts and softens his voice. "You don't have to have some grand plan. Just... pick one. Spaulding's adaptive program is incredible, and Achilles is basically built around community. No pressure. Just show up."
I chew on the inside of my cheek, thinking it through. The idea makes me nervous, but not in a bad way. More like that edge-of-the-starting-line feeling I haven't had in a long time.
"Yeah," I say slowly. "Maybe I could do that."
He smirks like he's already won. "See? Told you it was a good suggestion."
I roll my eyes, but my chest feels lighter than it has in weeks.

〰️〰️〰️

Sean's room is dark except for the warm glow of the lamp on his nightstand. He's in the shower, steam still curling out from under the bathroom door, and I'm sprawled on his bed with my laptop balanced on my knees.
I wasn't planning on doing this. Honestly, I thought I'd just scroll mindlessly until he came out, let his warmth and steadiness drown out the noise in my head. But Tyler's words have been looping in my brain all evening, stubborn and quiet and true.
So I open a new tab.
Spaulding Adaptive Sports Centers – Boston
The first thing that hits me is a banner photo of people in wheelchairs and adaptive bikes racing down a sunny trail, faces lit up like they own the world. I click through the pages—programs, volunteer opportunities, clinics. They offer everything from adaptive rowing to track and field. My throat tightens. I didn't expect to feel... this.
It's not jealousy. It's not pity. It's something closer to recognition.
Then I switch tabs. Achilles Boston.
Photos of runners with guides, bright yellow shirts, finish lines. Community. Support. A sense of belonging that practically hums through the screen. They have weekly runs, mentoring programs, and stories—so many stories—of people rebuilding their lives through sport.
I read one from a former marathoner who shattered her knee in a cycling accident. She talks about how, for months, she couldn't even look at a track without feeling sick. But eventually, she found Achilles, and it became the bridge between who she was and who she wanted to be.
I don't realize how long I've been reading until the shower shuts off and Sean emerges, damp hair sticking up, towel slung low around his hips. He spots me immediately.
"What's got you looking so serious?" he asks, drying his hair with another towel.
I glance up at him, then back at the screen. "Just... something Tyler said earlier. He mentioned some programs for injured athletes in Boston. I looked them up."
Sean crosses the room, dropping onto the bed beside me. He leans in to read, resting his chin on my shoulder like it's the most natural thing in the world. "Spaulding," he reads aloud. "Achilles. I've heard of these. A couple of guys from my off-season training group volunteer there sometimes."
His voice is warm, steady. Encouraging, without pushing.
"Do you think you'd want to... get involved?" he asks softly.
I hesitate. "I don't know yet. But maybe. It feels... right, somehow. Scary, but right."
Sean presses a kiss to my temple, his hand finding mine. "Then that's where you start."
And for the first time in a long time, I don't feel stuck. I feel like I've spotted the faint outline of a new path—different, unfamiliar, but mine to explore.
I close the laptop slowly, letting the screen dim to black. The room goes quiet except for the soft hum of the radiator and the faint thump of music from the guys' game night downstairs. Sean shifts beside me, still close, his thigh pressed against mine. He smells like soap and warm skin, his hair damp enough that little droplets cling to my shoulder.
For a while, neither of us says anything. It's the kind of quiet that feels full, not awkward. Like both of us are waiting for the other to breathe first.
"You know," he says finally, his voice low and careful, "I really like seeing you like this."
I glance over at him. "Like what? Creeping on charity websites?"
He laughs softly, bumping his shoulder against mine. "No. Thinking about what you want. For real. Not because of anyone or anything else. Just... you."
My throat tightens, because the way he says it—like it's obvious, like I matter—gets me every single time.
He turns fully to face me now, cross-legged on the bed. There's a different kind of focus in his eyes. Not the teasing, boyish look he gives me during NHL Xbox battles. Something steadier.
"Ry," he starts, rubbing the back of his neck like he's trying to find the right rhythm. "I've been thinking about... next semester. And, you know, after."
My stomach does a weird little flip. "Okay..."
He lets out a breath, a quiet laugh that sounds a bit like nerves. "I was gonna ask this a dozen different ways. Tried to find the perfect moment. But spoiler: there isn't one."
My heart starts to pound, and suddenly the room feels warmer.
Then he just says it. Simple. Honest. "I want us to get a place together."
For a second, I forget how to breathe.
"You... what?"
He smiles, but it's shy around the edges. "Move in with me. For real this time. Somewhere that's ours. Close to campus for you, close to the Bruins facilities for me. Just... you and me."
The words hit me like a wave I didn't see coming. All day I'd been spiraling about my future—about everything I didn't know—and now he's looking at me like maybe we could build something together.
Holy Freaking Molly.
"I know you've got a lot on your mind," he continues, eyes never leaving mine. "And I don't want this to feel like pressure. But when I think about next year, it doesn't make sense to picture it without you in it. I want to wake up next to you. I want to build something that's ours, Ry."
For once, I don't have a neatly rehearsed answer. No list. No timeline. Just the sound of my heart hammering in my chest and the boy I love sitting in front of me, offering me something solid.
And the truth spills out before I can second-guess it. "Yeah," I whisper. "I want that too."
His grin is slow and soft, like the sunrise cracking open the night. He reaches for my hand, lacing his fingers through mine, and the world outside the room fades until it's just us—two people trying to figure it out, piece by piece.
And for the first time since my last surgery, my future doesn't feel like a blank space. It feels like the start of something real.